


On Not Camping: The True Story of Vince's New Beard, Howard's New Tent, and the 'Bum Me'  Map

by Miriam_Heddy



Category: TheMightyBoosh(TV)
Genre: Gender Conformity, Gender Identity, Gender Presentation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 02:10:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6592435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miriam_Heddy/pseuds/Miriam_Heddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long weekend apart, an (easily preventable) misunderstanding, and the remembering of several, petty rows lead to Vince learning a valuable lesson about himself and his and Howard's relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Not Camping: The True Story of Vince's New Beard, Howard's New Tent, and the 'Bum Me'  Map

Strange fascination, fascinating me 

Changes are taking the pace  
I'm going through

 

Vince felt naked. He was naked, as he'd just showered. That was normal enough. The odd bit was he'd put no makeup on, and he hadn't shaved for four days, which meant he had something suggestive of a real beard--very short still, but quite filled in. And maybe not shaving should've meant he felt less naked, as there was something on his face covering it up. Only the facial hair was like a disguise, under which he was still... naked. The air felt like it was chafing his skin beneath his stubble. He felt raw--unfinished--like a statue only half chiseled out of stone.

He'd cut his hair as well. It still touched his collar, but only just. His head felt too light now-- like a balloon floating above his shoulders. He was coming apart. He'd detached from himself. Howard'd return and find pieces of him scattered in the lounge.

Did Howard ever feel like this--startled by his own reflection?

Vince was not at all certain any of this was a good idea. But if it was a bad idea, it was his own doing, and he wouldn't blame Howard for it, even if it was Howard's comment that set him off on this course.

 

  
Vince moved away from the mirror and pulled on the pair of trousers he'd uncovered from beneath his ever-growing piles of clothing still to be put away.

He'd got them several years back, on a whim, seeing them and thinking of fancy dress parties, and the idea of moving through the crowds of Shoreditch unnoticed. Vince Noir, detective. He'd be the fedora wearing tough man with a dark past and a dame on his arm.

Though he was used to being mistaken for the dame on Howard's arm.

Still, he could imagine it'd be a good film--something Howard'd like. A Vince Noir Film Noir by Obsideon Productions.

Howard could do the gloom and doom music, make it well moody, and at the premier, he'd invite tonnes of goth girls.

Or not.

Vince looked in the mirror again, with the trousers on, and didn't see much mystery. A bit of horror, yeah. Something ugly this way comes. How did blokes wear these things?

The trousers weren't his usual drainpipes, nor were they leggings, nor even flares, like he used to wear ages ago. These were just ordinary trousers--non-descript, charcoal black but not goth--without any particular style, really.

They were the sort made to look alright without drawing much attention to the wearer. The legs were cut straight, fitted, but without clinging to him. The back view was alright, though it made him remember how, when he was younger and still played football, his bum was more curvy than it was now. Though having a curvy bum was a bit poufy, wasn't it? Or was it only poufy to want to bum a round bum? Did poufs even wear trousers like these?

The trousers weren't cut as low as he was accustomed to wearing; they came up just high enough to fully cover his hips, with no bush showing, and no crack when he bent over. Just an unimpressive little arse clad in a wool blend.

Very modest, they were. Very not Vince Noir. Almost Howard Moon, in fact, though a good deal smaller in size. He'd had to fold the legs into cuffs, as they were too long, and he'd not got round to hemming them, so they looked a bit silly. When he used to wear flares, he usually bought them from the ladies' racks, as they were shorter in the leg. These were men's trousers, no mistake.

On top, he'd tried a t-shirt, but it wasn't right. His tight t-shirts were too sexy. And Howard's t-shirts were worse. They were far too large, making him look round in the middle, with spindly arms--like a chubby child, especially with the overlong trousers.

He'd settled on one of Howard's old collared, button-down, long-sleeved shirts--a really old one that was white with faint white stripes. It had pearl-snap pockets on the chest and at the wrists. Howard had only worn when he needed to look especially presentable, which wasn't often. When he'd put it in the charity shop bage, Vince had pulled it out and kept it with his own things, though he couldn't have said why.

Howard had worn it at Uni, when he was still quite slim but for a little soft belly that came and went and came and went. Then, when Howard was in his thirties, he filled out everywhere, and the tum finally stayed and got to be a permanent fixture, like his now impressive moustache and wide-wale corduroy and jazzy humming as he did the washing up.

The old shirt fit Vince alright, though it was a bit long in the torso, and the cut felt... strange. Boxy. Even tucked in, he looked a bit fat, in it, as it wasn't fitted and his chest was narrower than Howard's had been, so the shirt wanted to billow out when he moved his arms. He could fix that right up with his sewing machine, but he didn't really want to alter the shirt.

He'd worn button-down shirts before, but when he had, they'd been fitted. Then he switched to t-shirts during their Zooniverse days, except for a brief flirtation with being a Mod. Then it as t-shirts and blouses and tunics after that.

Vince shook his head, and the stranger in the mirror did as well. Both of them were a bit taken aback by the overall look.

 

It was Howard looking at Bowie album covers that'd done it.

Howard was sat on the black and white spotted sofa, comparing seventies, long-haired Bowie with Tin Machine Bowie, albums placed side by side, when Vince came into the lounge and sat beside him. He'd just removed his boots, planning to stay in. He'd sat sideways, with his knees pulled up to his chest, hands clasped in front, with his chin resting on his knees, just watching Howard.

Vince was, just as he'd been the day before, wearing a pair of black drainpipes and his somewhat sheer, patterned blouse in primary colours with a sort of built-in modesty panel, so his tits were covered. It was a bright and eye-catching.

He could tell from Howard's quick glance at it the first time he wore it that he very much hated it, but he wouldn't say so, even if Vince asked.

Howard had appeared at breakfast wearing his brown rollneck and mustard, corduroy trousers, both of which Vince would've liked to see burnt to ashes, though he wouldn't say that, either.

  
They'd learnt long ago that critiquing each other's outfits might well set off a clothing war and eventually burn down all of London.

Seeing Vince was watching him fiddle with the records, Howard raised one eyebrow at him and then grinned and said, "Strange. Hmph."

"What's that?" Vince asked, wishing he had a pocket mirror. It wasn't terribly polite to look at a bloke and say "Strange," even if you didn't fancy his blouse.

Howard shrugged. "Hmm. Must be getting old is all."

"Getting?" Vince shot back, feeling a bit tetchy. His face itched. He'd been prevented from shaving the morning before by Naboo, who'd mysteriously magicked all sharp things from the flat in a magical accident he still wouldn't explain. Then he'd gone to use his rechargeable shaver, only someone had knocked it from its charger, so it was dead. Then he'd gone out and bought a fresh razor, planning to shave in the evening, only he'd got caught up watching one of Howard's subtitled films on the telly and never getting round to it.

This morning, he'd been feeling ill and decided to stay indoors and so he'd not bothered to shower or shave. He'd pulled on yesterday's clothing and, filled with self-pity and tea, glared at Howard, who'd been unreasonably healthy and full of cheer and hadn't asked how he was feeling, though Vince supposed that was obvious enough from his red nose and nest of wadded up tissues.

"Sod off. Only meant my memory's failing me at the moment. I cannot recall where I put the photo album. Think we must have a photo here somewhere from when you were boyish only--"

"Boyish? What's that s'posed to mean?" Vince noticed the irony in his voice going up a notch and cracking like he was going through puberty again. His throat was a bit sore. It wasn't fair.

Howard shook his head, nose wrinkling as he thought about it. "Ah... when you were eighteen or nineteen, I think it was... just before you went King of the Mods on me. Remember you hair was short--stood straight up like a hedgehog--light on the ends, dark at the roots. Mentioned something about it to Naboo, who wants to see evidence, only, as I can't find the album...." Howard smiled to himself and shook his head, setting the records down on the side table, with Tin Machine Bowie on top.

"You going to put one of those on?" Vince asked, thinking it went without saying that he preferred early Bowie.

Howard got up and went to the turntable, sliding one of the albums from its sleeve and putting it on. Vince nodded, pleased, though he wouldn't have objected to Tin Machine, which had a saxophone, but was still not jazz.

Howard stood a moment, looking pensive, and Vince wished he could crack open Howard's brain case and see what was on.

"Alright, Howard?"

"Hmm. What? Right. Was just thinking how Bowie knew androgyny's a game best played by pretty young men. Soon as everyone tried it, glamming up, he'd moved on."

A game?! Vince wanted to ask, but didn't, as he knew he didn't have the words to put to the way his gut had turned funny when Howard said that.

Still, Vince reckoned he and Howard had known each other long enough that Vince could convey a good amount of outrage with just one look.

Howard bowed his head and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. And then he mumbled something about that photo album and how he'd look for it when he returned, or perhaps Vince could find it before then?

Only Vince had already got up and begun walking to his bedroom, so he didn't quite hear it. Nor did Howard repeat it.

Vince spent the next few hours sulking privately, only to fall asleep, dreaming about glam hedgehogs getting their roots touched up by a large brown bear wearing a silly hat.

When he came awake, it was to the sound of the downstairs door slamming shut. And that was when he remembered Howard's travel plans.

Howard had said he was going to Leeds for some once in a lifetime jazz performance by some geezer, the name of whom had passed out of Vince's head the moment he heard it, and he planned to make a long weekend of it.

At the time, Vince had just said, "Yeah, whatever, don't have too much fun." Then he promptly forgot all about it.

The door meant Howard had left for his trip without waking him and saying goodbye.

And Howard's leaving meant he now had a whole three days to simmer and stew and think about Howard's unasked for advice and whether or not he should give a toss about it, given that Howard was Howard--and thus not often consulted for his sartorial judgment or musical taste. Though if a bloke needed help determining whether a nutmeg jumper coordinated well with oatmeal trousers and a caramel coat, Howard was the man to see.

Scene people new to Camden sometimes visited the Nabootique just to get their own, personal, first-hand look at the local nutter and his time-machine wardrobe and moustache.

Some of them, prompted by Vince, even began to ask Howard for a guided tour of Stationary Village.

That nonsense had begun as a way of taking the piss after Howard and he had a row over whether Vince was stealing biros from their inventory.

He had been, only it wasn't stealing so much as borrowing, and he'd only taken a few.

And Vince had told him right then that he didn't think it was right that Howard knew precisely how many biros they had in stock, but didn't notice at all when Vince tidied up the lounge and hung up a new, framed drawing he'd done.

Howard had said, "As there's never been rhyme nor reason for the psychedelic chaos that is our walls, I some years ago committed to not looking at them too closely. If you expect me to notice a change in the hothouse decor, consider first take down some of the other kitch and making a proper place to showcase your art."

It wasn't what he'd said so much as the snippy way he'd said it. Vince was sure he'd put extra emphasis on "art" to imply it wasn't more than scribbling.

It was then Vince began prompting his mates to swing by and inquire about a tour. Howard was confused the first time someone asked him to show them round the Village.

By the fifteenth time, and after Vince had cellotaped an arrow to a biro stuck into an upside-down cup and used it to make an arrow pointing there, he'd caught on that Vince was responsible for marketing Howard as a side show exhibit, and he'd threatened revenge.

After a month, by which time the request had become something of a local joke and Vince had nearly forgotten he'd started it, Howard finally fell to pieces, shouting and roaring about how a man deserved a modicum of respect, if not from the nobodies on the street then at least from his empty-headed best mate.

Then he went cool and quiet, and, that night, Howard did a thing.

First, Howard drew up a tiny map of the Nabootique with Stationary Village on it like it was a real place. Then he photocopied the map and began handing it out to all Vince's mates when they stopped in the shop on Vinces advice.

The map had a big arrow on it by the rectangle marked "counter" with a stick figure that looked like a crow with hands. Beside the figure, Howard had written out, "The tit with the hair is HERE."

And on the top of the map he'd written out, "Guided tours 5 euros. Vintage stapler demonstrations 4 o'clock. Purchase a custom pencil case and get a free gift."

The gift turnt out to be a pencil. And if anyone was in the shop, Howard actually did show off his stapler collection, complete with a mini-lecture on the role staples played in winning the Second World War.

It was difficult to stay cross with Howard. He was just so very, very peculiar. And funny, in his own peculiar way.

Only there was always another row.

The next was on whether they ought to buy a new tent--to which Vince said, "There's no way in hell I'm ever going on a camping expedition ever again. EVER."

Granted, Vince had been saying that for years whilst continuing to be talked into coming, but he finally really meant it. If it wasn't Old Gregg, or Hippie Yeti, it was the Beast in the Bush or the Giant White Wyrm of Snowdownia National Park, which had trapped them in the Ffrith Galed Yurts for six miserable days. The countryside was too dangerous. He'd had enough gallivanting about getting burrs in his hair and ants in his pants.

Howard didn't like that, so, in secret, he revised his silly Village map so that, under "The tit with the hair is HERE." he also added, "Ask him about his 'Bum Me!' special. Half-price on Tuesdays. Bring your own slick."

After what Vince had painted on the shutters (the fourth time), he reckoned he deserved that. And he was likely due for more still, as they went back and forth with such nonsense. Howard was too easy to mock, and yet Vince enjoyed it too much to resist. Perhaps because of that, they got along well when they weren't shouting and sulking.

 

The clock, Vince noted, said Howard should be walking in the door any moment. Naboo and Bollo had been away the three day weekend as well, gone to some conference that was so ultra secret that Naboo kicked Bollo in the leg when he'd almost said where they'd be. Vince had caught the word "United" but they wouldn't narrow it further, so it might be the United Emirates or the United Federation of Planets or a even a football game.

Vince didn't care, though he had asked for a souvenir. He'd asked Howard for one as well.

Vince had kept the shop shuttered. Naboo had agreed, as he was too cheap to hire anyone for such a short time.

So Vince had spent the time feeling ill, watching his beard grow, listening to music, reorganising his wardrobe, and taking a general inventory of his life, reflecting on what to do about Howard's comments.

The last part was the most difficult, as he wasn't at all sure how to do it properly; he wasn't especially good at existential crises. He usually left that sort of thing to Howard to work out, as thinking too deeply just made him depressed. And as he was already depressed at the realization that Howard had gone off him, more thinking only made it worse.

And now Howard was late coming back, and Vince was all raw nerves. He paced the flat, then remembered he hadn't put on any shoes, so he went and pulled out the pair of office shoes he'd bought back in the eighties. They were the right size, but as soon as he tied the laces--somewhat surprised he remembered how--and stood up, they felt Wrong.

But he heard Howard tromping up the stairs, and it was too late to change, and, as he'd changed everything, he didn't know where he'd start, so he just stood beside the sofa, trying to look casual as Howard got to the top of the stairs.

"Alright, Howard?"

Howard opened his mouth and his hand. No actual words formed, but his opened hand meant his traveling bag promptly dropped down the stairs, making a series of dull thuds and then a louder one as it hit the bottom.

Howard didn't even look.

Instead, he kept his eyes on Vince, who shifted his weight from foot to foot and put his hands on his hips as Howard stepped closer, staring at him with his lips still parted and his tiny eyes unusually wide.

"You," Howard finally said.

Vince frowned. "Yeah? Me. What of it?"

Howard's forehead wrinkled up as his brows drew together. "Different."

Vince shrugged at getting another meaningless, one-word response. He tried to look as if he didn't desperately want to know if Howard thought the difference was to his liking. He'd done what he could with what he'd had, but he had to admit that it wasn't a look that came naturally.

Howard took a step closer to Vince, like his vision had worsened in the last few days away. He lifted his right arm and brought his hand up to Vince's face, at first not touching him--just hovering, palm-open, beside his cheek.

Then Howard's slightly damp palm was against Vince's cheek, with Howard's thumb touching Vince's face, just under his eye, where Vince knew he had dark shadows from not sleeping well whilst Howard was gone. He'd usually have used cucumber slices under his eyes and then colour-correcting primer to cover the shadows and eyeliner to draw attention up. Only he'd done none of that, as Howard never did.

Howard's hand pushed Vince to lift his chin up, and he used his other hand to run through Vince's hair. It was clean, but he'd let it air dry without any product, and it was still thick, but with no body or style beyond the shaggy, moddish bowl cut he'd done. Unlike his usual, it was a style that went with gravity rather than fighting against it. Vince wondered if that was why he felt so off-balance.

Howard's examination of him gave Vince a chance to look at Howard, who was much the same as when he'd left, though instead of looking cross, as he tended to even when he wasn't, he looked well-rested.

Vince reached up and took off Howard's hat, tossing it behind him to land on the sofa. Howard's hair was a brown smokey mass of hat-flattened curls, threaded through with silver. Vince had told him that, if he was going to put product in, he should be sure his hair was completely dry before putting on the hat. Being Howard, he hadn't listened, so now Vince finger-combed the fine curls till they looked less lifeless. As he did, Howard smiled softly, pressing against Vince's hand like a cat.

At the same time, Howard's hand, still in Vince's hair, had moved back to cup the back of Vince's head, and Vince let Howard pull him closer to him.

Howard let out a soft laugh when he realised Vince's shoes were flat-soled, making him several inches shorter than usual. Vince usually made a point of wearing his boots to even things out.

Howard toed off his suede shoes, one by one, but he was still a giant compared to Vince.

Vince was forced to get up on his toes to reach him properly.

The kiss that followed moved directly from "Alright, Vince," to "Happy to see you again, and how was your trip?" to "Hold off on the details and let's see how quickly we can mutually undress whilst still lip-locked and tongue-fucking."

Vince felt much of the tension leave him as he felt the intensity of Howard's passion. The new look appeared to be a success.

Howard's hands moved down from Vince's face to his shoulders and then came round to his back, then down to his bum, at which point Vince waited for the press of Howard's hands before doing a little leap up into his arms.

The kiss had to break for that, as the one time it hadn't, Vince had cut his bottom lip on one of Howard's sharp little teeth, and there'd been a ridiculous amount of blood that had put an end to what should've been a very sexy night.

Even not snogging, they sometimes bollixed up this move, once crashing down to the floor (in a tangle of elbows and knees and bruises and, eventually, raw knees as they rutted on the lounge floor), a few times slamming into the wall (more bruises, tenderly kissed), and once, nearly down the stairs (two very girlie shrieks and some breathless giggling from Vince whilst Howard vowed never to do that again).

But this time, they timed it all just right, and Vince had got his legs round Howard's waist just as Howard had hold of Vince's legs, and Howard got them to the bedroom door, using Vince's back to push it open. It was like a dance. Vince tried not to worry too much that he'd once again let Howard lead and carry him over the threshold like a bride.

They didn't always do the carrying thing, but Howard seemed to really like it, almost as well as the wheel barrow, and Vince mostly didn't mind, so long as Howard didn't put out his back. It felt a bit silly, being carried, though it was not silly at all on those days when they didn't make it to the bedroom and Howard pinned him against the wall and snogged the pants off him with all the delicacy of Heathcliff on a tear.

This time, Howard was very much in control, and Howard sat on the bed and laid himself back, with Vince on top of him. The the bed went whoosh and thump and gave up a loud creak of worn bedsprings.

Howard was pink-cheeked with exertion, though the panting breaths had more to do with Vince's having sat himself atop Howard's thighs, unzipping Howard's trousers and pulling his prick free of his pants. Howard was eager and wanting, his foreskin already pulled back, bell-end glossy with need, like it'd been weeks instead of one long weekend.

Howard moaned and Vince kept on toying with him until Howard finally pushed Vince's hands away so he could unbutton his own wildly patterned shirt. It had what looked like the makings of a martini, only scattered about an olive green polyester blend. It was ugly as sin, but one of Howard's favourites, and Vince knew Howard would regret having it stained.

Vince shifted his bum down so Howard could sit up a bit, and Howard shrugged off his shirt and then undid the buttons on Vince's shirt, his one eyebrow lifting up as he said, "The beard is one thing. But this shirt... dunno why you even have this, much less why you're wearing it."

Vince didn't try to explain. Then it was off and Howard rolled them both over and got off the bed, making very short work of removing Vince's shoes and trousers, though Howard did pause to run his hands over the trousers curiously before pulling them down, pressing his fingers into Vince's legs in an oddly sexual feel-up that ended with Howard's pressing the heel of his hand against Vince's semi, rubbing him through the open V of his trousers.

Then he pulled them off, taking Vince's pants with them. Vince had chosen his plainest, least provocative pair of y-fronts--grey with white trim. Howard grinned, wolfishly, as he pulled the pants down so Vince's semi was freed.

"You." Howard said again.

"You like?

"I love. You, I mean."

Vince had actually wanted to ask if Howard liked his outfit. Though what Howard said was nice to hear.

Howard moved on to pull down his own trousers and pants, stepping out of them. He stood there a moment, comfortably naked, and looked down at Vince with his head tipped slightly to the side. One hand came up to scratch his stubbled chin, and he said, "Better. Missed you."

Then, before Vince could ask what was better, exactly (and did he mean Vince's outfit was better than what he'd had on when Howard left?), Howard climbed back onto the bed and onto Vince, pulling Vince onto his side so they were facing each other.

Howard's hands came up to Vince's head again, with one again stroking and petting his barnet whilst the other delicately touched his face, fingertips brushing over Vinces eyebrows, so that he shut his eyes, then softly over his eyelids, lashes, down over his nose.

Vince kept his eyes shut, then, thinking about the hawkish beak he couldn't change, and the way his lips still looked a bit feminine even when surrounded by what, in a few days, might become a somewhat manly beard and mustache, and how the contrast made him want to put lippie on with the beard, to draw out the contrast, though if Howard liked him looking like a proper bloke....

Howard leant in and kissed him again--open-mouthed kisses that touched his lips but then kissed at the corner of his mouth, his chin, his cheeks, and then the flat spot high on his nose. Howard seemed especially fascinated by the texture of his beard stubble, rubbing his lips against it.

Then Howard shimmied down--though shimmied was the wrong word for it, as his movements were slowed by his stopping at his usual stopping places to say hello.

Howard was a fairly predictable lover, though not in a bad way. He just liked what he liked, and knew what Vince liked, and he put those together. If questioned on it, he would get defensive about his relative lack of experience, then get apologetic and ask Vince what he'd like.

Put that way, Vince usually couldn't think of anything. Howard was fairly thorough. Vince had once wondered what being a virgin did to a bloke, over the long-term. As it turnt out, it made a bloke fairly intense and thorough about his pleasure, as if, having come late to it, he was determined to gather in every possible drop of sensation.

Howard stopped first at each tit, rubbing each one with his stubble till Vince was nearly too sensitive and squirming. He tugged at Howard's hair, gently, when it became too much, and Howard switched to soothing him with soft licks.

When Vince had again relaxed, Howard switched back to sucking and gentle bites until Vince felt each touch of his mouth as a zap of sensation running from his tits to his balls. Vince realised he could now do the same to Howard. He suspected Howard had already thought of that.

He opened his eyes and looked down at Howard as Howard winked at him (cheeky bastard) and moved downward, following the line of hair down to Vince's navel, then to the wet tip of his penis, till Vince cried out at the heat and suction and perfection of Howard's mouth, his tongue, the dangerous scrape of his teeth.

Howard pulled back off to increase the pressure on his bellend, tongue lapping at the slit, then again, took him in deep.

Vince put his hand on Howard's head, not sure if he meant to pull him up or push him down, though Howard had chosen to swallow, and Vince shivered at the sight of his penis disappeared into Howard's mouth, and Howard's lips pressed against his bush.

"Ch-Christy, Howard, I need to come. Now. Fuck."

It was Howard's warning to pull off, if he liked, though if he had, Vince may well have shot him in the face, as it all happened quickly, so that he was surprised by the need too late to contain it.

Howard stayed with him, and Vince rode it out, trembling, shuddering, then finally just twitching, his body gone boneless, turnt to jelly, though his fingertips were still tangled in Howard's hair.

He forced his fingers open and then Howard pulled himself up to put his head on the pillow beside Vince, who still was getting his breath back.

Howard had a thoroughly smug grin on his face.

Vince grinned back at him, feeling giddy and spent and at ease in his body for the first time in three days.

"Vince."

"Hmm?"

"Vince, you make me very, very gay. No, don't laugh, I'm being serious. I don't just mean you make me happy, though you do that as well, but gay in the sense that I have come to consider the Noir prick alongside the Bouchet guitar and the Hammer Stradivari as being one of the finest instruments ever to be played."

Vince tried very hard not to laugh. Still, a snort of amusement slipped out.

Then Howard added, "It is, indeed, an honour, Sir."

And Vince cracked. He laughed till he was winded, and the entire time, Howard looked at him with a daft, pleased expression on his handsome face.

When Vince at last recovered, he asked, "What about something jazzy? How do I compare to, say for example, Charlie Parker's saxophone?"

Howard pulled a serious, worried face. "Bird, Sir? You put me into a difficult position with that. Some things are simply too sacred to be--"

"Yeah, yeah. Nevermind. Didn't want to compete with a lowly saxophone, did I? Oi, what about that thing what you jizzed into?"

Howard wrinkled up his nose. "As I recall, we agreed not to speak of that upon pain of death."

Vince smiled. "Yeah, alright. Though it was a bit sexy."

"Indeed," Howard agreed, looking embarrassed.

Then they were both quiet, both thinking, he reckoned, though likely not along similar lines.

Vince broke the silence. "That--you being very gay--that why you fancy me done up like this?"

"Like what? Naked? Yes. Absolutely. Though I'd say you're looking rather more undone than done up. Deshabille suits you." Howard rolled onto his side, slid his arm beneath his pillow, and propped his head on his hand.

Vince stayed on his back, keeping his eyes on the ceiling. He shrugged. "Mean the masculine look." Vince counted to one hundred in the silence, then added, "You prefer a bloke looking like a bloke. Did you from the start or is it--just now I'm older?"

He could peripherally see Howard's forehead wrinkle. "Pardon?"

Vince huffed a breath. "Reckon you must've preferred that from the start. It's why you said I wasn't your type, yeah? Only, I'm not pretty now I'm approaching thirty."

Vince very much expected Howard to remind him he was well past thirty, though if he did, Vince might well send Howard out to fit his mass on the tiny sofa in the lounge.

Only Howard said, "That orgasm cause irreparable brain damage?"

"What?"

"I don't know what. And I don't know who. But let's begin there. Who was it that said you aren't pretty? Tell me their names and I'll come at them like a wind tunnel."

Vince turned his head toward Howard, eyebrow raised. "You going to blow your own self now?"

"I... Is that even possible?" Howard looked genuinely curious, and Vince sighed, belatedly hearing how that'd sounded.

"Christy. No. It's not. Though that's not what I meant, is it?"

"What did you mean?"

"Meant it was you that said it, Howard. You did. So now I've fixed it and it's alright. Feel a bit plain, but that's better than looking silly, innit. And if you like it, suppose that's what matters, as I'm not trying to pull anyone else."

Vince really tried to sound like he meant that. He wanted to mean it. He thought he shouldn't want to know that he could pull anyone else. Though if Howard were right, perhaps he couldn't have done if he'd tried. It had been some time since he'd done more than a bit of meaningless flirting.

Howard stared at him warily, his eyes narrowed. "If it's not brain damage... This is some strange magic here. Naboo responsible for this? Were you trespassing again? Playing with his spells? Touching his 'no touch' things?"

"What? No! Course I haven't. Learnt my lesson. Why'd I do that?"

"Hmm. Well, there must be some explanation for why you sound like Vince Noir. You look like Vince Noir." Howard paused to lean in and kiss him deeply, then continued, "You even taste like Vince Noir."

"You taste like Vince Noir," Vince noted, still confused.

"Hmm. Yes." Howard's lips twitched into a grin, then grew serious again. "And yet I haven't the slightest idea what you're going on about, so I shall have to assume I've just given a blowie to a body double. Are you from another planet? I'm sure the real Vince will understand. A man has needs, and you are a very convincing imposter. I'll tell him resistance was futile. You'll back me up on that, yes?"

"I'm not a bloody imposter, Howard. Christy, I'm only saying what you said to me first."

Howard's eyes widened, mocking him now. "So now you're suggesting I've got a double as well? Convenient, isn't it? Did Howard Point Two fuck you while I was in Leeds? No, no, it's best I don't know. I'll only get myself jealous."

"Howard, this ain't a joke."

Howard sighed. "Then what the fuck is it? You'll have to excuse me, Vince, but I I've been gone all of three days, and I feel like I've walked into this conversation in media res."

Vince frowned.

"That's in the middle of things."

"Know what it means, Howard. I'm not an idiot. And I'm not a body snatcher."

"I know you're not. Sorry. Vince, look, see it from where I'm sitting. Catch me up. One moment you're the very personification of sex, and the next, well, you're clearly worked up about something you think I said, only I don't remember what I might've said, and I suspect I'll find I didn't even say it. But if I did... I expect I'm sorry."

Vince shrugged. "No need to apologise."

Howard took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Right. Then I shan't apologise. Just... tell me this. This thing I might have said...it's got something to do with your wearing my old shirt?"

"Yes. Obviously. Don't own too many mannish tops, do I?"

"Man-ish? What's mannish?"

"Manly. Stuff what most normal wankers wear. Ordinary uniform, male, bought from the men's shops, yeah? Menswear. What men wear that has people looking and saying, 'That's Vince Noir, Howard's handsome mate' instead of, 'That's Howard's ugly wife' or worse, 'Think I'll have a piece of that bird with the odd face.'"

Howard laughed.

"Oi, this ain't funny, Howard."

"Right. And that's why I'm not laughing." Howard was, still, though he was biting his lip to try and stop. "Hang on. Did Cheekbone declare blouses are not on this season?"

Vince rolled his eyes and sighed. Howard could be bloody dense at times "You're not hearing me. You. Christy, it's not Cheekbone. I don't follow Cheekbone's advice on what to wear. I tell them what's in. Usually."

"So you've declared blouses passé."

"No! You did."

Howard frowned. "I most certainly did not. I've nothing against blouses."

"Maybe not generally, but on me you do. You're the one what said I should make a change now I was too old to be dressing androgynous."

Howard sat up abruptly, pulling the duvet off Vince, who shivered.

Vince sat up as well and leant his back against the cold bedhead putting the pillow behind him.

Howard looked genuinely confused. Distraught, even. Vince felt much the same.

When they were both resettled on the bed, Howard cleared his throat and, speaking slowly and softly, said, "I've never, ever said that, Vince. I never have and I never shall. And even if my bloody clone said it, why would you be taking fashion tips from someone who looks like Howard Moon? You hate my clothing. You think I've no fashion sense. "

"Yeah, but this ain't about your taste in clothes for you. This is about your taste in me!"

"My taste in you?"

Vince heaved in a breath. "Right before you left you said it I was too old to go about in frills and all that, looking like an elderly drag queen."

"I--before I left, you're telling me that I said you were too old to be androgynous? That I said you looked like an elderly drag queen?"

Vince frowned. "Yeah. More or less. You said I once looked like a pretty hedgehog back when I was young, only now, as I wasn't pretty or young, I ought to stop wearing lippie and blouses and dress like a bloke--do what Bowie did."

At the word "hedgehog,' Howard's eyebrows had moved up his forehead as far as they could without moving right into his hairline. When Vince got to "lippie," Howard's eyes widened. At "dress like a bloke" he blew out a breath. And at "what Bowie did," Howard reached up with his hand, put it flat on Vince's arm, up near his shoulder, and gave him a hard shove.

Only it happened far faster than that, all at once-like, and the effect was that Vince said "Bow--" just as he was tipped over sideways, landing on his side, his arm under arm him, and with his head partly off the bed.

He blinked in shock, then carefully righted himself. He was gobsmacked at Howard's having done that. They never did anything of the kind. Except satsuma fights. And snowball fights. And the very occasional good-natured smack on the bum. "The fuck was that? I nearly went off the bed!"

Howard glared at him. "That, Sir, was my way of communicating my dismay at your reminding me that I've committed myself to sharing both life and bed with a pretty, senseless, insecure, vain little half-wit twat who needs to, if at all possible, listen more closely, think more often, and sodding learn to use his bloody cellphone when he's confused rather than wasting the whole week-end wearing conch shell and chalice on account of his assuming every bloody comment I make about anything revolves 'round his egotistical little poncy-arsed self."

"Hang on. You still think I'm pretty?"

Howard rolled his eyes. "Yes, I think you're pretty."

"Like this or without the beard?"

"Yes. Like this. Or in a skirt. Or with a beard and a skirt. For fucks' sake, wear what you like."

"But you're gay so you prefer men."

"Vince, regardless of what you wear, I remain gay. And so far as I am aware, you remain a man, though if that's changed, I don't think much would change."

"You're not bisexual."

Howard shut his eyes and rubbed them with the heels of his hands, then dropped his hands down to his lap, where he twisted them as he spoke, keeping his eyes cast down.

"Look, Vince, I'm sorry if I've been unclear in expressing my feelings for you. It isn't something that comes easily to me. I've... I've spent most of my time knowing you second-guessing myself, denying what I felt because, for quite some time, it didn't fit into who I thought I was.

"But I am indeed gay, and saying those words now sounds as right to me as it did the moment I first told you--as right to me as touching you seems right. And I've yet to make sense of whether my desire is the result of loving you for so long or if it's the reverse. I sometimes think my desire kept me with you when good sense and your own sharp tongue should've pushed me away.

"But so far as what you mean to me now, I'm very sure that my feelings are not contingent on your genitals, nor your gender, nor your hair, wardrobe, or cosmetics."

Vince felt a strange sensation of floating off the bed--of being unmoored by what Howard was saying and frustrated by how little he understood it, and by how little he believed what he understood. Only two days ago, Vince had been so certain that Howard, being gay, wasn't satisfied with Vince's being someone who called himself a man yet didn't feel quite right with all the things required of him to get the rest of the world to agree. Now he seemed to be saying Vince could be a woman and he'd not care?

But Howard was still talking, words coming faster now. "Christy. That said, I'm sure I never said a single word about lippie or blouses-- not yours or anyone's. I think I said, at most, only two things before I left. One was an idle comment on Bowie and the vagaries of glam rock and the music business, whilst the other was to ask whether you knew where I'd put the old photo album. Two separate things, Vince. And if you'd given it any thought, you might have recalled that, over the course of nearly three decades, I've never before offered an opinion on your boyishness nor girlishness, have I? No, I've not. Nor shall I, as it's got nothing to do with me one way or another. I don't claim to understand it, but you've always known who and what you are even when I didn't know that much of myself, so I shall continue to leave it to you to wear and be what you like, when you like, alright?"

Vince frowned, not sure if the question was rhetorical. Just in case it wasn't, he nodded.

Then he put both his hands on Howard's upper arm and shoved Howard hard as he could, hoping to push him onto the floor.

Howard, taken by surprise, actually teetered for a second before putting his hand flat down on the bed to brace himself, which meant he was staying put and there'd be no second chance.

He blinked at Vince, then his lips twitched into a grin. "I take it you feel better?"

Vince shrugged. "A bit. Yeah. Feel even better if you'd hit the floor an' landed on your fat arse. You?"

"Prats with flat arses should be bummed but not heard."

"Oi!" Vince reached down and gave Howard a soft pinch on the bum. It really was an attractive fat arse. One of the best he'd ever seen, and most definitely an arse made for bumming. Tomorrow, he promised himself. He'd get right on that. And, after that, he'd make Howard explain why he still said he was gay and not bisexual if Vince could be a bird. Did Howard suspect that, up in his head, some of him suspected he was part she?

Howard bumped shoulders with him.

Vince bumped back, then laid his head on Howard's shoulder. "Just thinking that, if you don't care either way, I might carry the look forward a bit. Not going Mod again, but something else of a beard with lippie thing."

"Alright." Howard said, as if that weren't at all a strange idea. Then he leant his head so it was resting against Vince's.

Vince smiled, feeling loads better than he had moments ago. Howard was really brilliant.

He probably knew it, too. Before long, he'd be getting a big head about how open-minded he was.

Vince really ought to nip that in the bud.

"So, um, Howard, will you come with me shopping--help me pick out some butch clothes? We could look for one of them chalices to wear as well. They sell those in Camden or the High Street?"

Howard lifted his head up and visibly tensed. "I don't--follow. Why do you need a chalice?"

Vince shrugged. "Dunno. You only just said to wear a conch shell and chalice. Think I've got a conch somewhere, but the other--dunno. Think I'd like a silver one if it ain't too precious."

"A silver....chalice?"

Vince frowned. "You think I should get a gold one? Might paint the conch to match. Thought silver'd go with my boots. Or should I try a flat shoe?"

Howard's mouth dropped open and Vince waited for him to decide. It was a simple thing, really. Silver or gold. Surely Howard could manage that.

At last, Howard reached over and cupped Vince's chin, his thumb rubbing against the stubble there. "Listen closely, love, because I think we might still be speaking at cross-purposes, and before you invest your dosh, we should be sure you and I are in concert. You listening?"

Howard's big hand was holding his face, but he managed to mumble, "In concert."

Howard nodded and let go of him. "Right. Now, first off, I said ton-sure. It's the name for the way Medieval monks got their hair shorn in the Middle Ages."

Vince frowned. "You think I look like a middle-aged monk?"

Howard looked stricken. "Shh, love. Please don't speak. Not now, not ever. Trust me when I say it's for the best."

"But--"

"Shh. Now, just now, I said that if you'd phoned me, you'd have known I did not want you to cut your hair into a t o n s u r e. Tonsure. And the other I said is spelt c e l i c e. It's a sackcloth. A hair shirt? Catholics wore them as a form of penance in the--"

"I kept my clippings. They're all sorted, in the clippings box. Think we could make a shirt out of them and sell it in the shop?

"Vince, they used goat hair an--what?"

Vince put his hand over his mouth, but not in time to stop the laughter from leaking out of his nose. He covered his nose as well, but that didn't stop it.

Howard was glaring at him. "You twisted little piece of burnt toast."

Vince widened his eyes, still keeping his mouth covered.

"You black-hearted knave."

"Princess," Vince suggested.

"Bitter old Queen, I think."

"Oi!"

"You knew what I said. You knew and yet you let me go on yammering for your own amusement even after I've opened up to you, sharing my feelings only to have you use my own words against me."

"No, no, really! It wasn't like that!"

Howard looked at him with disbelief.

"Honest, Howard, I didn't know. Not at first. Really! Didn't know what you said when you said it, but when you stopped talking I went back over it in my head, and I worked out you'd said tonsure. Know all about hair, Howard. That one was easy. Only the other one took a bit longer cause I had to work out that, though a monk might drink from a chalice, he wouldn't wear one, would he? Unless it were on a rope around his neck, and why'd you want to wear it, unless it was the Holy Grail or something, so I reckoned it was one of them itchy robes they wore to punish themselves for sinning and whatnot. Though didn't people used to fasten tankards to their belts?"

"Find a library and look it up yourself."

"Howard, I really--"

"You've gone too far, Sir. I have a limit--and you've pushed right past it."

Vince giggled.

Howard glared.

"Sorry?" Vince offered, though in truth he was not. "It was just funny hearing you trying to work out how to explain it. It was really good, though. Your explanation? You should've been a teacher."

"Yeah? Well, I'll teach you something right now, little man." And with that warning, Howard grabbed hold of him and maneuvered him until he was on his back, knees drawn up to his chest, with Howard looming over him.

Vince grinned up at him. If Howard wanted to bum him, they were surely alright. "Think I might know this one already."

"As with all things, practice makes perfect," Howard muttered, and got the slick from the bedside table.

Vince watched Howard squeeze some out onto his fingers and then he had to shut his eyes because Howard was pushing those fingers inside of him and wiggling them a bit. It didn't hurt, as he'd long ago learnt to relax, though it was a bit more difficult on his back than on his front.

"Think you're clever do you, Noir."

"Yes," Vince answered, keeping his eyes shut.

Howard's fingers were going in deeper with each thrust.

"Harder."

"Like this?"

Vince nodded, as Howard really went for it, thrusting in, then curling his fingers.

Vince shuddered and took a shaky breath. He'd begun perspiring, and he licked his barely-there mustache. It felt very strange--sweat beading up on his stubble.

He opened his eyes when Howard stopped thrusting to push a pillow beneath his hips, lifting Vince up so his legs were up on Howard's shoulders and then Howard thrust into him all at once, and all the way in and stayed like that.

The air whooshed out of his lungs with that thrust, and he gasped.

"Alright Vince?" Howard sounded calm and in control--an illusion, as Vince could feel him trembling with the effort of not thrusting. His back, round which Vince had wrapped his legs, was slick with perspiration. His front was equally wet. It made Howard a bit slippery, which meant sometimes, Vince could rub himself off on Howard without using slick. When Howard bummed him, he found himself getting hard at the scent of male sweat and semen and his own perfume. He'd have to think about whether he'd still wear it with a full beard.

Howard shifted his knees on the bed and lifted Vince's hips a bit, getting more comfortable, and Vince moaned, having all his attempts at self-distraction undone by Howard's movements as his prick hardened again.

"Sorry," Howard murmured.

Vince tried to speak, but only managed a "Hmmm."

Then they breathed together, both holding still, till Vince felt ready to move.

"Alright?"

"Now. Do it."

Howard's hands tightened on Vinces' hips, and then he thrust.

Howard hadn't come already, but he still managed to keep control. The muscles in his chest and arms moved as he repositioned Vince till nearly every thrust was putting pressure on his prostate and Vince came again, the pleasure mixed up perfectly with the ache in his legs and arse.

Howard grunted and added to the ache by clutching Vince's arse with big, bruising fingers as he let himself come inside of Vince.

He slid out slowly, lowering Vince back onto the bed with a grunt.

Vince stretched his legs straight, pointing his toes and taking a deep breath now that he no longer had Howard folding him up.

Howard dropped to the bed beside him, then dragged himself over so his head was rested heavily on Vince's left shoulder. Vince's arm went around his back, holding him there.

"Know I said I'd not say anything, Vince."

"Yeah? So...?"

"Hmm. Your facial hair. The look...It's..."

Vince tensed.

"it's just a novelty, not a preference of mine, yeah? But... provided you're comfortable with it, you might consider keeping it for awhile longer. Till you tire of it. Or not. It's entirely up to you. Just, all things being equal, novelty might be a consideration worth...considering."

Vince patted Howard's head where it was resting on his shoulder. Howard, stumbling to find the right words--to say the right thing--was a treat.

"Yeah, alright, I'll think on it."

Howard moved his head just enough to kiss the bit of skin nearest his mouth. It tickled, but Vince didn't laugh.

It really was something to know that Howard genuinely didn't give a toss whether he looked boyish or girlish or inbetweenish. It helped more that Howard likewise didn't seem to care which he was inside. People often said they loved someone just the way they were, but few seemed able to love someone as they might be.

Vince fell asleep wondering if he could say he felt the same about Howard. Then he thought of Howard, red-nosed despite wearing a bucket hat, slogging through the mud in hip waders and a shirt the colour of several strains of influenza, and he decided that yes, unconditional love must be possible. And because of that, and for no other reason, in the morning they would be purchasing a new camping tent.

The End.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I just don't know.
> 
> Is any of this at all funny? Touching? An exercise in pointless and self-indulgent meandering? An important new breakthrough in the development of Miriam Heddy's oeuvre? Was there a word here you especially liked?


End file.
